


Emetophile

by Rvotshka



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: 2nd Person, Emetophilia, Mouth Gags, Other, Strade's tied up and reader kinda likes vomit, Torture, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rvotshka/pseuds/Rvotshka
Summary: Strade gets tortured a bit





	Emetophile

**Author's Note:**

> My username dont mean vomit for nothin

One thing you have to give Strade credit for, the one single trait of his nature that’s borderline admirable, is his inability to break eye contact. Even now, when it’s his hands bound together behind the pole instead of yours, his eyes follow your every move as you make your way around the basement you were forced to get familiar with. The blood he made you shed before the tables turned is still stained across your hands, your thighs, and the side of your face that he intimately scored his knife across. You’re aching, limping on one leg, but an almost peaceful calm has washed over you because you’re life isn’t in his hands anymore.

 

You reach out and you brush your fingers against the hard edge of the work table covered with power tools, rope, blood that’s long dried by now, screwdrivers… the list goes on. It feels strange looking down at the area that only he used to have access to. You glance over at him and yes, he’s still staring at you as if he's somehow still the predator hunting his prey, as if he doesn't want to accept that he  is the prey. That seething hatred is still in his eyes and it hasn’t simmered down since he regained consciousness tethered to his own grave.

 

You take the ring gag off the counter with your right hand (the hand that still has five fingers) and you turn to face him. It’s the same one that he put between your teeth yesterday and you can still feel the ache in your jaw from it stretching your mouth open.

 

His mouth is a hard line as you kneel in front of him. His beautiful amber eyes are boring into you as if pure anger alone will free him, and you smile.

 

“Open you mouth.”

 

He doesn’t say no, but he doesn’t move either. You know better than to stick your fingers near his teeth, so you stretch out the belt of the gag and draw it closer to his face. The ring touches his lips and they twitch.

 

“Open it, or I’ll make you open it.”

 

At that, he actually smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes like it did when he was torturing you.

 

You drop the gag in his lap and return to the table. When you come back and crouch before him again, you’re holding one of his hunting knives. You tap the tip of it against his bottom lip gently. It's a silent incentive for him to obey that gets more demanding as you slowly press the blade deeper into the soft skin of his lip, until a bead of blood drips down his chin. And miraculously enough, he does obey. Slowly, his teeth separate the slightest bit and you smile with encouragement as you pick up the gag and slip the ring into his mouth, forcing his jaw open with the same metal that he had put his cock through when it was in your mouth. 

 

You fasten it behind his head and pat his face like you’re petting a dog.

 

“Is it uncomfortable?” you ask. 

 

Your thumb comes up and you smear the thin line of blood across his chin. Then you place the digit in his mouth and press the pad of it onto his hot tongue, wiping his blood away with his saliva. You can feel his jaw tensing under the urge to bite, and it makes you grin wider. You remember seeing pliers on the counter, and you remind yourself to use them later. Either on his teeth or his fingers, you can't decide yet. You’re already leaning towards taking his teeth. Teeth first, then fingers. That’ll be fun for later; for now, you see a trail of drool dripping out of his open mouth, mixing with the small amount of blood there, and you smile again and let your fingers brush against his jaw.

 

“Strade, when was the last time you ate?” you ask him.

 

He frowns at your question. It’s probably the first time you see pure confusion on his face. He narrows his eyes the slightest bit as you move to kneel by his side instead of in front of him. You’re so close you can smell how disgusting he is. You slide your hand to the back of his head through his hair, your fingernails scraping against his scalp as you grip a handful and wrench his head back closer to the pole. He groans, making a deep, guttural noise in the back of his throat, and it grows louder as your free hand grips his jaw.

 

You dip two fingers inside, you trace along the sharp arch of his bottom teeth, back enough to feel his molars, and Strade tries jerking his head away. You laugh as you pull your wet fingers out to smear his saliva onto his face, and then you sink them back into his mouth, deeper this time. You press against his tongue and he tries coughing, tries leaning forward, and you reach deeper until you feel his entire throat seize up.

 

His body tries to lurch forward with a dry retch leaving his mouth, but your hand in his hair forces him back. When you feel him convulse again as you practically scrape against the back of his mouth, he tries shaking out of your grip more intensely, a warning growl leaving his mouth.

 

“Hey, hey, it's okay, you're almost there,” you placate.

 

His eyes are screwed shut now, almost wet at the corners, and the noises leaving his open mouth are barely human anymore and you love it. You press against the very back of his tongue one more time and he finally vomits. You let him lean forward and you hear his choked sounds as he throws up whatever mess that was digesting in his stomach. It's watery at first, splashing onto his legs and the concrete, and as he pukes a second time all on his own, the disgusting volume that comes up is thick and tinted with undigested food. He's breathing hard but he can't close his mouth to spit out the taste, so he continues to lean forward to let the remaining viscous strings of vomit hang at his lips until they break under their own weight. You only give him a few seconds before you force his head back again.

 

He resists like before, and he can't do a thing as you place your two fingers back into his wet mouth. They slide against his tongue easier than before as you touch the soft palate at the back of his throat, and you make him throw up what's left in his stomach. And then you force him to continue retching until his growls start morphing into whimpers each time you force his head back and violate his mouth with your fingers again, and again, and again.


End file.
